


You can do it, put your back into it

by misslonelyhearts



Series: Kink in the Armor [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Profanity, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for my second prompt in the Kink in the Armor writing relay, i was given: public sex, one clothed (or partially clothed) and one starkers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can do it, put your back into it

The bloody dragon had the end of her broadsword clamped between its teeth.  It snorted and shook the steel like a mabari with a squirrel, and Yodit felt her arms threaten to jerk clean from her shoulders.  But she held.  Her thighs burned, her calves strained, and her heels dug fresh scars into the hard desert earth.  She held because it meant everything, for some reason.  
  
With a tremendous, throat-splitting roar, Yodit yanked back on the crossguard and her sword thwanged free of the dragon’s teeth.  She tumbled backwards, pinwheeling, and lost sight of the beast bearing down on her as she pitched over a cliff.  
  
And woke.    
  
She woke to the feeling of falling, to the terrible tangle of sheets and their whispery ripping sound.  She woke with a literal jerk, as pain shot through her left leg and her body seemed to hang in mid-air.    
  
She woke, as she often did during her worst sleepwalking fits, not in her bed or any place she recognized immediately.  Yodit blinked.  The world around her was cool and dark, and bore a striking resemblance to Skyhold’s moonlit inner courtyard.  Except, it was the wrong way ‘round.   
  
No, she was the wrong one. Upside down, in fact.  The dense stone walls, snuffling horses, and braziers full of deep orange light swayed gently in her twisting, topsy view, as if blown by a breeze. Naked and swinging in a pendulous arc, Yodit held her breath while a pair of patrolmen marched along the low garden wall and turned the corner away from the tower.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
Yodit groaned and looked down, which was now up.  Above her appeared the sleep-rumpled hair and panicked face of her advisor and sometimes bedmate.  He leaned over the edge of the balcony from which she had, apparently, fallen like a wounded bird.  Only a length of crimson sheet, wrapped around her leg and caught on the balcony’s banner pole, had saved her from bashing her fool head in on the stone below.  
  
“No, I’m not fucking alright, you twat,” Yodit whispered viciously.  The sheet began to loosen around her thigh as she turned. “Blighted balls, Cullen, be of fucking service and _pull me up_.”  
  
“You’re closer to the ground,” he said. “It’s easier if I let you down the rest of the way.”  
  
“Did it escape your notice that I’m bloody starkers?”   
  
“It hasn’t, no,” said Cullen.  It was the same grim tone he used after she’d eaten the last pasty or ordered a military strike without telling him.  It all sounded the same to Yodit, anyway.  He gripped the taut sheet where it had snagged on the banner pole and began lifting it off. Yodit squirmed, bending double to swipe at the sheet.   
  
“Nugshit, pull me up.”  She turned and swung and pitched her furious whisper upwards like she was commanding him to charge down a company of demons. “Put your back into it, I know you can!”  
  
But he was intent on lowering her, so Yodit breathed and seethed and clenched the sheet with her aching thighs, willing a dragon to swoop down and put her out of this misery.  
  
“The whole Keep must have heard you screaming before you went over.”  Cullen’s upper body leaned sharply over the balcony. Even in their shared awkwardness, Yodit appreciated the beauty of those straining arms, the gnarled hands. He smiled, about as charmed by her naked thrashing as she was by his constant apprehension.  “Easy now,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” Yodit watched the ground inch closer.  She kept her legs clamped together around the sheet, lengthened her torso, and stretched her arms toward the mossy stones below.   
  
But the tension in the fabric changed.  It seemed to give up the ghost all at once, and Yodit clapped her eyes on Cullen’s with tangible dismay. “Oh, bollocks,” she muttered.  
  
The sheet tore clean in half, and Yodit hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, in a flailing bundle of sheet and legs.  She rolled free, the offended shoulder screaming, and popped up to look for any sign of passing guards.  But the only witness to her tumble was Cullen, who still gripped his end of the torn sheet like a shipwrecked man, too frightened to let go. And then a brilliant, toothy smile spread below his stunned eyes.   
  
Yodit grinned back at him, giving him a circus acrobat’s expansive bow.  She often forgot that Cullen could be young if he let himself. When he smiled, if he smiled, there was a spotty, gangly kid under the worry-lines and scars. Her sore shoulder griped and she rolled it with a grimace.  
  
Cullen yanked up his end of the sheet and threw it down somewhere in the bedchamber behind him.  
  
“Quickly, hide in the garden, I’ll come down with some clothes.”  He gestured away from the advancing patrol, whose footsteps Yodit heard closing in on her exposed position beneath the tower.  
  
She gathered her ripped sheet and ran for the nearby garden.  Her bare feet kissed the dewy stone briefly before she launched herself over the low wall.  
  
Five chilly minutes later, Cullen came skulking around the topiaries and statues, calling her name in a worried whisper.  
  
“Here, you daft tit.”  
  
Yodit peeked out from behind the trunk of a lone pine tree that stood, tall and stiff as a disapproving uncle, at the back of the garden nearest the mountain.  
  
Cullen approached her with a bundle of clothes and a pair of short boots held out at the end of his arms.  Yodit took them and dropped them on the ground at her feet.  Her brown toes were turning into pale blue nubs in the cold.  She picked out the wool socks first and Cullen hunched around her with his cloak spread a little.    
  
“You might have warned me about the night terrors.”  His voice was soft as he picked pine needles out of her short curls.  
  
“They’re not terrors, just dreams,” she replied, struggling to pull on the first sock, to dress quickly. Her body shivered as if to cock up the process in spite of itself.  “Ones that feel very very real.”  
  
“You fought me,” said Cullen, woefully attached to a set of imaginary rules that she was forever breaking. “I was trying to pull you away from the balcony, but you put up quite a fight.”  
  
“Did I?” With the second sock dangling from her fingers, Yodit paused.  Inside the warm cocoon of his cloak and his body and his naked concern, she’d stopped shivering.  
  
“Come on, before the patrol comes back,” Cullen said, glancing around.  
  
“Oh, I dunno,” Yodit said, dropping the sock.  She put her hands behind her head, stuck out her broad chest and filled her lungs with crisp night air.  “I’m quite enjoying this romantic moment of ours.  Beautiful night and all.”  
  
“Your idea of romance involves six pints of ale and an arm-wrestling match.”  
  
To parry his predictable bout of prudentry, Yodit stepped close enough to feel the fabric of his tunic on her nipples, and across her belly.  
  
“Yeah, but it’s _naked_ arm-wrestling,” she said, and those same arms circled his back under the cloak.  “And if it chaps you so badly, stop coming around to play.”  
  
He struggled so visibly, so exquisitely.  Desire rubbed raw by duty was his bread and butter, and it made Yodit hot when she should have been freezing.  Cullen licked his lips and said, “Forgive me if I fail to find anything erotic in watching you fall headfirst out of a window.”  
  
“Seems like not all your parts are in agreement there,” said Yodit.  She snaked a hand to the front of his trousers, wrenching them open to stroke him.    
  
“Maker’s breath,” Cullen ground out between his teeth. But he didn’t stop her. “What are you playing at now?”  
  
The kid was there, she saw him wringing his hands and kicking the dirt just behind Cullen’s pained eyes.  When she gave him a wink, and a tug too gentle for her nature, he almost smiled.  
  
“By my count we’ve got eight and a half minutes before the patrol comes round again,” said Yodit, and she kissed him deeply for the first time since they’d fallen into exhausted sleep a few hours earlier.  “Fancy a fuck?”  
  
She barely waited for the skittering tremble of _yes_ that rushed from the rigid flesh in her hand to the heart hammering beneath the press of their matched chests.  Thus encouraged, Yodit shucked his trousers lower in his hips.  
  
“What, here?” Incredulous, Cullen cast his eyes around the shadowy garden before pitching them skyward to the stars.  He mumbled, “Andraste guide me.”  
  
“Mmm, that’s the plan, yeah.” Yodit turned to give him her backside.  She braced against the tree and whispered over her shoulder, “Guide you right in, love.”  
  
He groaned as miserably as she had while swinging from the balcony, just as upended as she’d been.  Yodit reached back for him.  
  
“Inveterate blasphemer,” he said.  
  
“Poncy prick,” she said.   
  
The gangly, grinning kid was gone.  The scarred man roared and chased him away.  Cullen took her hips, leaning into her with a purpose, and with his first rough thrust Yodit moaned against the sap-sticky tree trunk.  “Oh, fuckin’ yes.”  
  
“Shhh,” he shushed with light kisses on her bare shoulder, the one that still ached. “Please.”  
  
“I’ll be quiet as a Chantry mouse,” Yodit promised with absolutely no intention to do so.  They rocked and rutted against the tree with nothing but their bodies and the crickets for music.  
  
When he was comfortably rhythmic, when the clouds of hot breath from their panting thickened to silver, when his plowing turned Yodit mad from the jolting joy of it, she hollered, “MAKER’S. HOLY. TAINT.  THAT’S THE STUFF!”   
  
And she meant it from her single-socked foot to the tingles crawling across her scalp.    
  
Cullen shushed again, and grunted, and bore down on her, trapping her between his weight and his finger working between her thighs, “For the love of-”   
  
“ _Fffuck!_ ” Yodit finished.  
  
And so did Cullen, with a muffled battle-cry of, “ _Aahngh!_ ” before he went wobbly behind her.  
  
They slumped together, dazed and sweating, against the tree.  Cullen’s cloak hung around them both like a damp tent at camp.  
  
His head rolled against her back.  Yodit felt him chuckle just there, in her very spine, and in his deepest, softest voice he said, “Satisfied?”  
  
She nodded. “Well done, my lad.”  
  
Cullen tucked his cock away gingerly and Yodit snorted at his primness.  He glared at her before turning around to watch for the patrol while she dressed.  In a flash she was clothed, and he was still pacing the garden when she jammed her left foot in the remaining boot and stalked up behind him.  She smacked his ass, gave him a shove and said, “I’m freezing my fucking tits off, stop mucking about and let’s get inside.”  
  
“Foul-mouthed tyrant,” Cullen muttered to her as they both threw a casual wave to the patrol just outside the tower.  
  
“Broody cuntsore,” Yodit replied under her breath as they crossed into Skyhold’s darkened halls.  
  
When he had escorted her to her chamber door, Cullen seemed to stop himself from something.  Reaching for a kiss, or telling her to knock off all the swearing, Yodit was unsure of which.  He looked so wearysome she wondered if he’d ever _really_ been a kid.  After a moment, Cullen said simply, “Will you sleep now?”  
  
Yodit closed her eyes and brushed a hand between her legs.  
  
“I bloody well ought to,” she said huskily.   
  
Despite her lewdness, he was bereft of that judgement of his she’d come to expect.  He wasn’t the stubborn dragon, chomping at the pointy end of her sword.    
  
Standing in the blue-black gathering of shadows outside her door, Cullen was all worry-worn eyebrows and _Will I wake to find you in the larder, or the dungeon, or traipsing across the roof? What if I’m too late?_ And he was a child, had always been so.  An entire life of _please don’t leave_ hiding inside an older man’s ridiculous feather-and-fur-trimmed cloak.  
  
“Thanks for that,” said Yodit, and pulled him into a squashing hug before she could let herself say more.  
  
Cullen huffed and kissed her curls, mumbling, “My pleasure to be of service, Inquisitor.”


End file.
